


Fighting For Control

by Legorandia



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Desperation, Omorashi, Wetting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-14
Updated: 2014-06-14
Packaged: 2018-02-04 14:21:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1782175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Legorandia/pseuds/Legorandia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You’ve always prided yourself in your ability to master anything you put your mind to, whether it be sword fighting or robotics. You’ve mastered nearly every function of your body, which is why it’s completely unacceptable that you have had so much trouble mastering your bladder.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fighting For Control

**Author's Note:**

> Cross posting from the kink meme. Prompt and original post are [here](http://homesmut.dreamwidth.org/39716.html?thread=45130276#cmt45130276).

The sound of the ocean is an ever present thing in your apartment. You grew up with waves crashing against the metal beams holding your home above them, the constant movement of water back and forth far beneath you. It’s one of your favorite sounds, one you aren’t sure you could live without at this point.

God you hate it right now.

You’ve always prided yourself in your ability to master anything you put your mind to, whether it be sword fighting or robotics. Or your own body. You’ve fasted for three days before, consuming nothing but water because you could. Because you are Dirk motherfucking Strider and if you want to do something you are very well going to do it. You can hold your breath for two minutes. You once masturbated twice a day for a week without letting yourself orgasm. You’ve mastered nearly every function of your body, which is why it’s completely unacceptable that you have had so much trouble mastering your bladder.

Your thighs are trembling. You refuse to press them together.

It should be as simple as anything else, really. Set a goal, and see it through. Your body should be used to this by now after everything else you’ve put it though, should realize that you aren’t going to stop until it bends to your wishes.

The first time you tried you made it just over half way through the time you’d set before running—barely holding on—to the toilet. It was humiliating, and you’d flat out refused to do that again the second time. Instead you had lost it in the shower.

This time—your third attempt—you aren’t allowing yourself any luxury. You’d relieved yourself at approximately 12 o’clock the night before after which you locked the bathroom door with a timed lock, which you had developed specifically for this. Until the timer went off—24 hours from when it was set—you would have no access to the toilet.

You spent the night on Derse as you typically do; you haven’t been able to sleep since dividing your consciousness between your two selves, however your physical body still needs regular rest. After switching back you’d felt the typical morning urge, which you were able to easily ignore. Going about your usual routine was simple enough, and for the first few hours you’d been feeling pretty confident.

It’s just past noon now, and while you’re still confident that you can do this you’re also very aware of just how full you are. Your bladder is hard as a rock and your belt is uncomfortably tight around your abdomen; you stubbornly leave it fastened as you try your best to ignore the pressure and cast a line out into the water. You relocated yourself about an hour ago, restless and needing a change of scenery from your bedroom, and are now settled on one of the lower beams of your apartment structure trying to catch a few fish.

The ocean is right below you, only ten feet away, and with every crashing wave your muscles clench. It’s been just over twelve hours now since the timer started—twelve hours since you last emptied your bladder with twelve left to go until you can do so again. You are in control. You can do it this time.

You can totally unzip your fly right now and piss in the water below.

A wave of urgency hits you as that thought passes through your head, and your hands clench tightly around the fishing pole. Was it this bad before you came out here? You can’t remember anymore, but after being here for a while you’re pretty sure you aren’t doing yourself any favors by staying and watching the surf. Part of you wants to stay for the added challenge of it, however another part of you actually wants to succeed at what you’re trying to do and has to admit that going back inside is probably the best idea right now. It’s not like the fish have been biting anyway.

You get to your feet and your entire body tenses when the fluid in your bladder shifts. It takes you a few minutes to arrange your fishing equipment in your sylladex, and then you start the climb back up, trying to think of another activity you can do this afternoon. Something that requires a lot of concentration preferably, to distract you from the current state of your body.

Half way up you’re struck with a pang of desperation so intense you almost lose your footing, hips jerking involuntarily as your body attempts to twist in on itself. Clenching your teeth you cling, white knuckled, to the support beam; falling from this distance wouldn’t kill you, but it would hurt like a bitch and you don’t fancy going for a swim right now. Your legs are shaking from the effort it takes to keep them apart, and you can actually feel your bladder throbbing as the pressure intensifies.

As soon as the feeling dims down from unbearable to simply extremely pressing, you’re climbing again; you make it to your bedroom window without further incident and crawl back inside. Your room is littered with wires and half built devices; staring at your tools you find yourself going over various ways in which you could disable the lock timer. It would be fairly easy ordinarily, but you had designed it with the knowledge that you would likely want to disassemble it and had added a few extra fail safes into the design to prevent the very thing you’re contemplating. It would most likely take the rest of the day to crack it if you started now, at which point the door would have unlocked on its own. Your attention is better focused elsewhere.

Your glasses light up suddenly with a Pesterchum window. Jake is messaging you; for a brief moment you consider having your auto responder reply back but decide against it. You need a distraction, and you always enjoy talking to Jake.

You sit on your bed and talk to him for a while about various things—the latest terrible movie he watched, the progress of the bunny he’s building for his grandmother, the current terror status of hellmurder island. After about thirty minutes of conversation you realize you’re massaging your crotch; you quickly tear your hand away, berating yourself for the loss of control. You’re not a child, you aren’t going to hold yourself and squirm just because you have to pee. Your body does not control you—you control it, at least that’s what you tell yourself as another wave of urgency comes over you the moment you move your hand away. You fist both hands in your sheets, sitting on the edge of your bed with your legs purposefully spread far apart as you ride it out. By the time it subsides you’re panting; Jake is wondering where you went but you don’t trust yourself to speak just yet without your distress coming across through the text.

As soon as you regain your composure you make up a bullshit excuse and tell him you’ll talk to him later. After the window closes you set the auto responder to take any future messages while at the same time disabling the ability for him to speak to you and see your surroundings. You’re pretty sure AR is aware of what you’re doing considering he’s literally you, but you still would rather not have to discuss it.

That done, you sit back and soon realize you’re thirsty. You were keeping yourself well hydrated this morning but have neglected to drink anything for a while now. Shuffling through your sylladex you check out your selection of orange soda, before deciding you’d rather just have water. That will require getting up and going to the kitchen. No problem, you can absolutely stand up.

You stand up and immediately regret it. The movement causes another surge of desperation; you bend over sharply, and before you can get a grip on yourself your legs are press tightly together, one jerking up and inwards as your hips twist. You manage to keep your hands away, crossing your arms over your chest as you fight to straighten back up and grimace as your bladder continues to throb.

A fleeting through passes through your mind that this is pointless, that you’re obviously going to piss yourself any minute now and any sane person would have given up and peed in the kitchen sink, or just straight out of the window, but you. Are. Mother. Fucking. _Dirk. Strider_. You are fucking _in control_. You have to be, because if you can’t master your own damn body then how can you expect to master anything else?

The kitchen. Water. _Now._

Through sheer force of will you straighten up and leave your bedroom, heading down the hall to the kitchen. You pass the bathroom on the way and feel a desperate twinge at the sight of the timer—you still have over ten hours left to go. Your belt is becoming painful but you refuse to adjust it despite knowing that if you just removed it and unbuttoned your jeans you would feel a great deal better. _No. Luxuries_.

Reaching the kitchen you pull out a cup, hold it under the faucet, and turn on the water. As soon as the sound reaches your ears your bladder outright spasms, and you nearly lose your grip on the glass as your whole body begins to tremble. You force your eyes to remain straight ahead, watching as the glass is filled; by the time you turn the water off you’re visibly shifting your weight from foot to foot, unable to stand still anymore.

You lean your weight onto the counter as you bring the cup to your lips and drink; the water is refreshing, and you make sure to drink the entire glass despite feeling like the fluid is skipping past your stomach entirely and going straight to your already overly bloated bladder. When you’re finished you set the glass down and take a deep breath; your bladder is throbbing steadily now and it’s getting harder and harder to resist the urge to squeeze your legs together. You need to find something else to do, something to keep your mind off of it and pass the time.

You’ve just decided to go back to your room and put a movie on (it hadn’t been quite so bad while you were sitting down) when the next wave hits you like a punch to the gut. Gasping you fall to a crouch, legs spread and hands gripping the edge of the counter as your hips jerk and your body trembles. You press your forehead against the cabinet door as you wait for the moment to pass, but this time it doesn’t, and a few seconds later you feel your tightened muscles quiver. A short, hot spurt of urine shoots down your urethra into your boxers and you choke down a cry— _no goddamn fucking hell not yet_ —and drop your knees to the floor, both hands flying to your crotch to try and prevent further leaks.

It seems to work for a few seconds but then another spurt forces its way out. You grip yourself harder, legs tightly squeezed together, all thought of composure and appearance shot as you desperately try to not wet yourself, but your muscles are tired and no matter how hard you clench down on them you can’t stop it from coming out anymore. The next spurt turns into a trickle, which soon becomes an uncontrollable stream as your muscles finally give out completely; you can feel the wetness spreading under your hands, soaking through your jeans and gloves, and a moment later you can hear it dripping down onto the floor.

“ _Fuck_.” You’re breathing harshly, lips curled and brow furrowed in utter contempt for yourself as your tired bladder empties itself all over the kitchen floor. The feeling of release is amazing, almost as good as an orgasm, but you can’t bring yourself to enjoy it because all you can think about is that you failed _again_.

It’s a good five minutes before you can stand up again; rising slowly to your feet you grimace at the feeling of urine soaked jeans clinging to your skin. Unfortunately, despite the fact that it’s no longer necessary, the lock on your bathroom door still isn’t going to open for another ten hours, leaving you without access to the shower all afternoon. With a sigh you kick off your shoes and begin peeling your clothes off, folding your unsoiled shirt and leaving it on the counter and dropping your ruined jeans unceremoniously on the floor.

Next time you’ll make it. If not, then you’ll try again. You’ll try as many times as it takes, because you are Dirk motherfucking Strider and you will not let your bladder control you.

For now, you think a swim might be a good idea after all.


End file.
